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O Mary, at thy window be,It is the wish’d, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me see,That make the miser’s treasure poor:How blythely was I bide the stour,A weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure,The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,To thee my fancy took its wing,I sat, but neither heard nor saw:Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a’ the town,I sigh’d, and said among them a’,“Ye are na Mary Morison.”